


Embarrassing Bodily Function Stories

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: Alcohol, Bigotry, F/M, Gross, Infatuation, M/M, Transphobia, gender neutral reader, trans fic, trans reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 18:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11973147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: Everyone has an embarrassing bodily function story. You and Arin end up exchanging a few.





	Embarrassing Bodily Function Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoMansWindow2846](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoMansWindow2846/gifts).



> Edited by Angel! Thank you, darling!

You shouldn't have come to this bar.

That really was your first mistake, and as you take a sip of your watered down drink, you _know_ that was only the first mistake of many, because your coworker is looking at you like you're some kind of rare disease under a microscope, and that is just... exceedingly unpleasant. 

"So you were born as a -"

"I was born as a baby," you cut in. "Like we all were, naked and screaming."

"Well, yeah, but the doctor looked between your legs and declared it's a -"

"Yes, I know, it didn't match who I am now," you say, through clenched teeth. "But that's not really important anymore. I mean, it's been awhile since then." 

You laugh nervously, aware that you're almost tittering, the anxiety starting to bubble up in your chest. 

You shift from foot to foot, shoving your hand into your pocket, the denim bulging as you clench your fist.

"So have you had, like, the surgery?"

She's moving closer into your personal space, and you take a step back, trying to give yourself some space.

You bump into the guy behind you, and you mumble an apology at him. 

He says some kind of affirmation in return, but you're not paying attention right now. 

"I've had a few surgeries," you tell her. "When I was fourteen I had my appendix out, when I was seventeen I got my wisdom teeth out...."

"You know what I mean," your coworker says, making a dismissive hand gesture. 

"I'm not comfortable sharing that," you say stiffly. 

You need to be polite.

You need to not snap at her, because your job is important.

This is the last time you go for drinks with coworkers. 

At least this time it's just one person. 

She's probably gonna tell the whole goddamn office, which is _not_ a thing you need, but at least there you can field the damage a bit better.

Not in this seedy ass bar, with sticky tables and way too loud music.

"You can tell me," she says, and she grabs your wrist. "I've never met a trans before - I'm super curious!"

"It's, uh... trans isn't actually the noun," you say, aware of how feeble your voice is coming out.

"How do you pee?"

You yank your wrist free, sloshing your drink over your shoes, and you put it on the bar carefully. 

The guy behind you is sweaty as hell, and he's huge - his back is broad enough that he doesn't seem bothered by the fact that you've backed into it. 

"I think everyone pees the same way," you say.

"Yeah, but what out of?"

"... my urethra?"

"Which is attached to...?"

"You know," the guy behind you says, and he's turning around, and when you look up, you see a friendly bearded face, with narrowed eyes, "I can't help but overhear your conversation." He smiles at your colleague, then shoots you a concerned look. 

"Can you believe this is a trans?" 

Your coworker lets go of your wrist to indicate you, and you keep the big fake smile pasted on your face, because you can't yell at her, you can't really do anything but stand here and fight off the equal parts anger and terror that are warring in your gut like a pair of dragons. 

"I mean, I don't really want to presume that I know what's in someone's pants," the man says, and his deep voice is vibrating against your back. 

You're still pressed against his chest.

"Yeah, but they look so much like a real -"

"Person, yeah," says Arin. "I know that whenever I meet a new person, I like to make sure they're not a robot." He looks down at you, and he smiles with his whole face at you. "I _just_ saw the Terminator movies for the first time the other night - my boyfriend made me just sit down and watch them, since I'd never actually seen them."

"Yeah? I remember seeing them when I was very small," you tell him, smiling nervously. 

He's a good deal taller than you - you lucked out, in some respects.

Your height was always a bit of a talking point, before you transitioned. But now that you're more or less where you want to be, socially, physically, your height is downright _normal_. 

It helps that you were the statistical average, just... not with the identity that you were sporting at the start of things. 

But he's a good deal taller than you - if the positions were reversed, and he was the one grilling you, you're pretty sure you'd have pissed yourself in terror by now.

You know the statistics, for people like you. 

"Yeah? You must've been a brave little kid," he says, and you turn your body towards him.

Hopefully your coworker will take the hint.

She doesn't, and there's a hand on your shoulder, squeezing a bit too hard. 

You freeze, and your face must do something, because the guy in front of you, his face does something as well.

"Aren't you... curious to know?" 

When you glance over your shoulder, you see that your coworker looks... downright crafty, which is an unsettling expression to have so close to your face.

"I'm curious about a lot of things," he says, his tone mild. 

It's hard to tell in the dim light, but it seems like he might be clenching his jaw.

"Exactly!" Your coworker uses her leverage to spin you around, so that your back crashes into the bar, and you're staring at her, your eyes wide. "So what actually is in your pants?"

"Are you guys dating?" 

The guy's tone is full of polite inquiry.

"Oh, no," she says. "I'd never date a trans." She sees your expression. "No offense," she says quickly. "I'm just, you know, I only -"

"It's fine," you say tersely, because, oh god, not _that_ conversation again.

You will gnaw your own damn arm off before you have that conversation again.

"I mean, I dunno about you," the guy says, talking to you, "but I'm only really interested in someone else's junk if I'm dating them. Since, like, when else are you actually interacting with it. Unless this lady is your doctor?"

You shake your head very quickly. 

"...well," says your coworker, and the wind has clearly gone out of her sails. "I need to go to the ladies room. I'll be right back, we can discuss this then."

She makes her way towards the bathroom in the back of the big room, wobbling on her heels.

The guy looks at you, and his expression is downright... sweet. 

"Are you alright?"

"I need to figure out a way to get out of this conversation," you tell him, shocking yourself with your honesty. 

"You want to walk me to my car?"

You pause. 

This guy is bigger than you.

A lot bigger than you.

If shit goes... well, if shit doesn't go well, then he could kill you pretty easily, and while trans panic isn't considered an actual legal defense anymore, there are enough lawyers (and judges) out there who _will_ argue it, and you... are not up for being killed and stuffed in a ditch today.

"My name is Arin," the guy says, and he offers you a hand. "Arin Hanson. I'm, uh... I won't try anything funny." He looks around a bit furtively, and he leans in, so that you're the only one that can hear it in the loud bar. "I'm, um.. I'm one of the Game Grumps."

"What's the Game Grumps?" You furrow your brow, looking at him, confused.

"It's a YouTube thing," he tells you. "But, uh... you're looking super worried, so, like, if you think anything untoward is gonna happen, you can tell everyone that Arin Hanson did it. I can give you my wife's number, and my boyfriend's, if that'd help?"

You blink at the onslaught of information.

"You have a wife and a boyfriend?"

"Polyamory, man," He smiles, and he's flushing pink. "It's the way of the future. So, uh, can I escort you out?"

"Why do you want to escort me out?"

So the guy isn't straight. 

That relieves some little bit of the anxiety bubbling in your chest.

"Because you look like you're gonna throw up if you keep talking to that lady -"

"She's from my job," you tell him. 

"Your job needs a new HR department," he tells you. "But yeah. My buddy knows the guy who owns the bar. Dude hates vomit."

"Seems like a bar would be a bad idea, if you hated vomit."

"He's got a dude who usually deals with it," says Arin. "So you wanna blow this popsicle stand?"

"I don't want to worry my coworker," you say, glancing towards the bathroom. 

She still hasn't come out.

She is, admittedly, pretty damn drunk. 

One of your other coworkers goes into the bathroom as well, and at least now you won't have to worry about her, which is nice.

"Hey, Eddie," Arin calls for the bartender.

"What's up?" 

Eddie has a very big beard, and he leans in, resting his elbows on the bar. 

"Can you tell the lady with the blue eyeshadow that her friend got sick and had to go home?"

Eddie gives a thumbs up.

Arin looks at you, and he indicates the door to the bar. 

"Shall we?"

"Sounds good," you say, following after him, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease.

Dudes like him don't usually want to help people like you, for a variety of reasons. 

At least he's not a straight guy - you would have outright refused if that was the case.

There’s being trusting of strangers, and then there’s being fucking stupid. 

* * *

"I'm sorry," Arin says, when you're in the (relatively) fresh air of LA, his hands shoved into his pockets. "I'm probably coming off as a bit sketch."

"Why would you say that?" You're speaking carefully.

"Well, uh, I know it's creepy to just drag someone away from their work party or whatever, but you looked super uncomfortable, and like I said, Eddie really hates puke, and if you threw up he’d probably pass out….” He gives you a slightly sheepish look. “Also, I’ve had to deal with that kind of line of questioning before.”

You file that away for later - maybe he’s not as cis as you thought he was. 

"It's a birthday party," you tell him, "but I'm new, so I don't really know anyone, and I just kinda showed up." 

"Free drinks?"

"Not even," you say, and you laugh, anxiety bubbling out of you.

You're getting... safe vibes from this guy.

Also, in the better light, he looks like a bit of a marshmallow. 

"My boyfriend is a musician," he tells you, and now that you can see his face better, you notice the way that his face lights up when he says the word "boyfriend." "He had some kinda buddy from his old band in town, and that buddy is kinda into the bar scene, so I kinda agreed to come along, but they're at a table talking about the old days." Arin laughs. "He doesn't even drink, he's just probably getting super soppy."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah," says Arin. "Guy is a sap." 

And then he... blushes?

Holy shit.

This guy is kind of adorable. 

"Sorry," Arin says. "I'm just kinda going on about my boyfriend."

"It's cute," you tell him, and you smile at him.

"So," Arin says, "as you have rescued me from the utter boredom that is being stuck at a bar, and I have rescued you from the utter boredom that is being stuck with your coworkers at a bar, would you want to go get something to eat?"

"What kind of something to eat?"

You don't want this guy to get the wrong idea - you've heard enough horror stories about this kind of shit. 

"There's a middle eastern place over by the pet shop over there," Arin says, indicating a blinking blue and red sign. Then he pauses. "Shit, I never asked your name. I am _so_ sorry, I think I just got caught up in shit."

"It's fine," you say, and you tell him your name. 

"That's a nice name," he says. "I've always felt weird about my name - it's spelled, like, super weird, so I always have to correct people."

"Thanks," you tell him. "I chose it myself!"

And then you start laughing, really laughing, almost bent double, laughing so hard that it's hard to breathe, and he's joining in - he's got an ugly laugh, a chesty, almost coughing laugh, and that makes you laugh harder, until you end up leaning against him, still cackling.

“... was it something I said?” Arin finally has his breath back, and he’s got his hands on his knees, panting like he was just running in a marathon. 

“I remembered, uh….” You stand up fully, wiping your eyes to keep from giggling anymore, “a friend of mine, when she… when she transitioned, her buddy was giving her shit about her new name, and this one guy goes “Nice name, did you pick it yourself”, and she responded with… with “Yeah, did your _Mom_ choose yours?”, and it was like… the funniest shit ever.”

You pause.

“... you had to be there?”

“It sounds pretty funny,” Arin says, in a conciliatory tone. 

You snort. 

“So, uh… what do you do, for this Game Grumps thing?” 

You shove your hands in your pockets, and you walk next to him comfortably, making your way towards the middle eastern place, where the lights are still blinking, promising that it is both halal, and best shawarma in town. 

“Mainly, me and my boyfriend sit around and talk about video games, while we watch them,” Arin says, and there’s that same flush, as he mentions his boyfriend. “I mean, he wasn’t my boyfriend when we started the show, we’ve only actually been dating for a few months.” He clears his throat, still looking pleased. “But, uh, yeah. We play video games and talk about them while we do it.”

“Like a game theory kinda thing?”

You step into the restaurant with him - it’s pretty much empty, because who goes to a place that’s clearly for drunks at ten in the evening on a Tuesday?

“Nah,” he says. “Nothing that sophisticated.”

You order food, sitting at one of the small tables, their vinyl tablecloths sticky against your arms when you rest your forearms on it. 

“No?”

“Nope,” says Arin. “I mean….” He blushes, and he leans in close to you, so that his mustache is almost brushing against your cheek. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this.” 

Oh boy.

Some deep secret, which will probably have something to do with trans people, because you tend to bring that on yourself. Maybe you’ve just got one of those faces.

“I mean,” Arin continues, “I met you and I looked, like, something vaguely resembling cool. But now I’m about to reveal the truth.”

“The truth?”

More trepidation.

“The truth is,” Arin says, “I have literally shit myself on camera. Like… I got so angry that I just shit myself.”

You burst out laughing, and immediately regret it, because… well, that’s mean. 

“I know, right,” says Arin, and he looks sheepish, cute even under the throbbing fluorescent lights that only seem to show up in stores open after nine in the evening. 

“So you actually _can_ shit yourself in rage?” You can’t keep the vague fascination out of your voice. “I’ve never been that angry.”

“I mean, some of the angry is a show,” he says. “I’m not actually going to, like, throw a screaming temper tantrum over whatever. But, well, people like to watch other people flailing and screaming, even if they can’t see you. And I’ve got, uh… let’s say faulty intestines.” 

He looks even more sheepish. 

As someone who’s had your own medical problems…. You can relate. 

“But yeah. I was really mad at this one _really_ annoying game, and my stomach had been giving me trouble, and my… well, you know, I was….” Arin leans back in his chair, covering his face with both hands, “And, well… yeah. You get angry enough, enough muscles do things that you don’t want them to do but they do it anyway, and you end up… well… needing new pants.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Although, I have managed to make myself like a totally dork now, haven’t I?”

“We all have embarrassing bodily function stories,” you tell him.

“Oh yeah? What’s yours?” 

Then he pauses, looking nervous. “Shit, sorry. I feel like embarrassing bodily function stories is a thing you do when you’re on, like, third date, or at least when you’ve known someone for more than, like, an hour.”

“I once threw up on my boss,” you admit. 

You’re not touching the “date” comment, although he is cute. 

And bisexual, or pansexual, which eases certain anxieties. 

“Is that why you’re at the new job?” 

“A little bit,” you say. “And also, uh… I got outed, and my boss was kinda conservative, so it kinda… went south. Really south.”

“How much of a dick were they?”

“Ironically enough, that was what he was shouting about,” you say, and you try to sound like you’re amused, even though the memory still stings. 

“Guy deserved to be thrown up on,” Arin says, and then your food is arriving, and you smile at him in spite of yourself.

And then you food is in front of you, and you begin to eat.

There is so much garlic sauce on the shawarma that you are probably safe from vampires for the next week or so. 

“I dunno, does anyone deserve to be thrown up on?”

“I think if you’re a jerk, the universe finds a way to tell you to quit being a jerk,” Arin says, with an air of authority.

“I don’t think getting thrown up on really changes someone’s attitude,” you say.

“I dunno,” Arin says. “If anything else, it means you gotta learn to step outta the way when people are making that one face….”

“That one face?”

“Everyone has the same face when they throw up,” Arin says, with an air of authority. 

“No way,” you say. “Everyone has different faces.”

“They have different faces,” Arin says, “but the body does basically the same thing.” 

“You think?”

“I mean,” Arin says, “there’s only so many ways that a body can throw up, minus, like… other physical problems.”

You look down at the mess of white sauce, meat, and french fries in front of you.

You make a face.

“Could we maybe talk about something else when we’re not eating dinner?” 

“Geez, yeah, you’re right,” he says, and he laughs. “I’m really hard to gross out these days. It helps when a lot of your fanbase is as gross as you are.”

“What kind of gross?” 

It’s out before you can help it.

There’s so many different ways of being “gross,” and maybe he means politically, or something else, and you don’t want to have that whole conversation, when everything is going so nicely. 

What if the guy has to pander to Nazis, somehow? With whatever it is that he does.

“Well, uh, I make a lot of jokes and talk a lot about, well… sex, shit, farting, stuff like that,” says Arin. “It’s kinda ridiculous - I’m a grown ass man and I make my living by fart jokes.”

“Fart jokes can be funny,” you tell him. 

For the first time, you notice his shirt.

It’s emblazoned with Sailor Moon. 

“Are you an anime fan?”

“Oh yeah,” says Arin. “Huge anime fan. In more than one way.” He flexes, clearly as a joke, and you can’t help but notice his muscles anyway. 

You show off your own muscles, which aren’t much, but you’ve been trying to bulk up a bit - there’s the stereotype of trans people even being hyper muscled hulks, or else frail limp noodles.

You just want to be able to carry all your groceries in one go. 

“I, uh… I forgot where I was going with that,” you say, and you squirm, blushing. 

“It’s all good,” Arin says, his tone agreeable. “But I gotta thank you for helping me get out of that bar.”

“Mmm?” 

You take a bite of your dinner, and it is the exact greasy, creamy, potatoey thing that you need, and you didn’t even know you needed it, until this bite. 

“I hate bars,” says Arin. “I don’t even drink. I just wanted to go with Dan - that’s my boyfriend, his name is Dan - but Dan is all busy with his old buddy. Not that I begrudge him that,” he adds quickly.

You shoot him a sympathetic look.

“Poly is pretty hard,” you tell him.

“Oh yeah,” he says, and he sighs. “I love it - I love them - but sometimes figuring out the… balance of time and shit like that can make you feel short changed. Or like you’re being a whiner.” Then he makes another face. “Shit, I’m just complaining about my problems.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “I know from poly stuff.” 

“Any advice?” 

You shrug.

“Um… I’d say that you just gotta accept being unhappy sometimes, and enjoying the bits that are nice,” you say. “Although that is the most generic advice ever.”

“A little bit,” he says, looking a bit guilty. “But I can’t be too upset. When enough people give me the same advice, I have to at least assume that some of it is the right idea.”

“I always thought it was a bad idea to trust common knowledge,” you counter, and you eat another bite of your shawarma. 

“What’s one piece of common knowledge you don’t trust, then?”

“Well,” you say, biting back half a dozen comments about how “common knowledge” calls people like you predators, “there’s the fact that a dog’s mouth has more germs than a human mouth.”

“... who didn’t know that?”

“I grew up hearing that a dog’s mouth had less,” you tell him. “You know, when you’re little and you scrape your knee, you get your dog to lick the scrape?”

“Wouldn’t that just give the dog a taste for blood?” 

“That sounds like something out of Stephen King,” you tell him.

“I haven’t actually read any Stephen King,” he says. “I’m kind of a horror wuss.”

“Yeah?” You lick the garlic sauce off of your lips, trying not to get any of it all over your shirt.

As much as you’ve changed your body - by choice, with the kind of joy that can only be achieved by becoming your own self - you were used to certain proportions. 

… not even used to them, they always felt wrong, but you learned to overcompensate, and now you’re in a weird place where your shirts get covered in sauce, as you compensate for the new shape.

Miraculously, you manage to keep your shirt clean, for once in your life. 

Especially in front of someone else. 

Someone cute.

… goddamn it. 

You are not developing a crush on some random guy who was nice to you.

You blush and stare down into your food, because if you look up at him, you’re gonna blush harder. 

“You know,” Arin says, after there’s been a lull in the conversation of about a minute, “I’ve always thought gender stuff was… weird.”

You bite back the urge to groan and roll your eyes.

Oh god.

Not this.

Not this goddamn talk. 

“Because, like… I’ve always been feminine. For a dude. And all these people have always said that I should transition, because apparently dudes can’t like feminine stuff.”

You shrug, and you’re shifting position.

“I think that gendering people like that is weird,” you say flatly, and you don’t want to come off as rude, but at the same time… you’re not having this conversation again. 

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re the only one who can decide what your gender is, and whatever your gender expression is,” you tell him. The very same damn conversation that you’ve had half a million times with half a million cis people.

… well, maybe not half a million, but every other cis person you’ve talked to.

“I never looked at it like that before,” Arin says, in a tone that sounds like he’s having a dawning realization. 

“Yeah… most people haven’t,” you say, and apparently some of your bitterness creeps into your tone, because he shoots you a concerned look.

“Are you alright?”

And for some reason, you actually tell the truth.

“I… I’m not your therapist,” You tell him. “I don’t think that you’re talking to me like your therapist, but usually I end up in situations where cis people use me as the sounding board for their gender feelings. And I get it, because… gender feels are complicated and I don’t like being the one who has to help people with this stuff.”

“That does sound frustrating,” Arin said. “Although I’d never thought of that. But then again, I get a lot of people who are very… like, I get pitched a _lot_ of web shows.” 

“Do they cry on you or tell you about their childhood trauma or their first sexual fantasies?”

“No, we’ve got the fanfic writers for that,” says Arin, and now he’s cheerful.

“... fanfic writers?”

“Oh, yep,” he says. “We’ve got… very creative fans.”

“... I think you need to tell me more about your web show,” you tell him, elbows on the table. 

“I’ve told you most of it,” he says. “Fart jokes and video games.”

“So you don’t shit yourself on camera usually?”

… are you flirting with him? 

You are!

… well, he’s not a straight guy, and he’s poly, so at least you know that there won’t be, like, violent shit. 

And he does know you’re trans, which cuts out a chunk of the risk.

Assuming he’d even be interested in the first place.

You are _really_ getting ahead of yourself here.

“I do my best not to,” he says, “although with my insides, sometimes I worry I’ll end up doing it anyway.” 

“I think that part of being a person is constantly being afraid of shitting yourself, unless you’ve moved past those types of concerns,” you say. 

“Yeah?” 

“Being an adult is being afraid you’re gonna embarrass yourself in some way or another.” You laugh, in the back of your throat, and there’s something like bitterness on the back of your tongue. “I feel like I’ve got that covered.”

“Why, because of the trans thing?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you say.

“I mean,” he says, looking thoughtful, “If I were you, I’d be super proud of it. Yeah, I was born, like, a certain way, but check me out now, and how hot I am now!”

“And then I’ll end up dead in a ditch,” you tell him flatly, and you take a big bite to keep from saying something stupid.

Something else stupid. 

Oh god.

“Is it that dangerous?”

“Well, yeah,” you tell him. 

Sometimes you forget how goddamn clueless cis people can be. 

“... why?”

“Because people… they feel like we trick them. Or they get turned on by us and then they get angry. Or they don’t want people to guess whatever it is that they’re into. Or they hate us because they’re trans themselves and don’t want to to admit it, or… well, it keeps going.”

“I never thought of that before,” says Arin. 

“I mean, why would you?” You finish the last of your shawarma, and you put your fork down, looking down at it.

Oh god. 

You’re getting choked up.

You clear your throat. 

Arin puts a nervous hand on yours, and you surprise the both of you when you don’t pull your hand back.

“It, uh… it must have taken a lot of trust, for you to spend the evening with me, right now.” 

You nod, biting your lip.

Since your transition, you’ve gotten a lot more in touch with your emotions. 

It’s handy to not be quite so… emotionally constipated, but it’s annoying to have Feelings all the time. 

“Thank you,” Arin says. 

“You’re welcome,” you say, and you take a deep slug of water, to keep from embarrassing yourself anymore.

“I should probably check on Dan,” he says, glancing at the clock over the counter. “And my wife is probably wondering if I’m getting up to anything crazy.”

“Crazy?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “Dancing on tables. The whole mess of it.”

You snort.

“You don’t look like much of a table dancer,” you tell him. 

“Yeah, because the table would break under my weight.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you say quickly. 

“I know,” he says. “I’m kidding.” 

He pauses, and he’s rubbing his hands together, looking shy. 

“... could I possibly get your number?”

“My number?”

… the heck? 

“I like talking to you,” he say. “I mean… you’ve got a new perspective.”

… oh god, not a chaser. 

“I don’t know a lot of people who, like, don’t watch my show,” he says, “and it’s kind of… satisfying to talk to someone who’s like that.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I must sound like the biggest douchebag.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, and you impulsively put a hand on his arm. “I’ve, uh… I know what it’s like to be known only for the one thing.”

He smiles at you.

“Are you able to drive?”

“Oh yeah,” you say. “I’m sober, trust me.” 

“You sure?”

“You wanna smell my breath?” 

It’s such a brash comment, like something out of one of those horrible romantic comedies, but this whole night feels like something out of a weird romantic comedy.

You stand on tiptoe, and you breathe in his face, 

Your hand is on his shoulder, and his face is close enough to yours that you could kiss him.

“Okay,” he says, and he smiles. “You’ve definitely eaten garlic today.”

You snort, and you squeeze his shoulder impulsively, then pull back, blushing.

“It was good meeting you,” he says, and he offers you a hand, then pauses. “Is this a hug moment or a handshake moment?”

You’re standing in a dark parking lot outside of a late night halal place, in the middle of LA.

You feel safer than you’ve ever felt in a dark parking lot with a strange (barely known?) man. 

“I’ll take a hug,” you say. “After I told you about throwing up on my boss, I feel like we’re at that point.”

He hugs you, a proper bearhug, and it feels weird, not to hug someone gingerly to not give up your “secret” - even though you’ve got the body that’s a lot closer to the one you’re supposed to have, and you don’t have to hide anymore. 

Your face is in his neck, and he smells nice - a little sweaty, a little like his cologne, a little like something else. 

It’s… surprisingly nice. 

He squeezes you, his hands on your lower back, and then he lets go of you, and he smiles at you.

"Can I walk you to your car?"

"That'd be nice," you tell him. "Thank you."

Is it a gender thing? 

Or is it a nice thing?

Probably a nice thing.

Hopefully.

When you get in, you see him go back into the bar, via the rear view mirror.

Alright, good. If he'd stood there and just watched you drive out, that would have been kind of... creepy. 

You sigh, beginning to drive home.

You're gonna have to deal with your coworker tomorrow, but hey - you got to meet a cute guy!

* * *

When you wake up the next morning, your phone is blinking at you.

_Did you get home okay?_

It's a new number. 

Hmm. 

Your phone buzzes again. 

_This is Arin. The weirdo from the bar who shit himself on camera_

You sit up in bed, and you crack up, rubbing your eyes and stretching, your back cracking. 

_I got home okay. Did you manage to grab your boyfriend?_

_Oh yeah. He and his buddy were arguing about the merits of... something or other, I don't even know_

_Lots of technobabble?_

_Seriously_

* * *

When you get to work, your coworker looks... honestly, kind of queasy. 

"You have fun last night?" 

"It was a nice experience," you say in a neutral tone of voice.

Last night _was_ a nice experience!

Just not the bits with her in it. 

"Melody, from accounting, I told her about our whole... you know, trans conversation," she says, leaning in, "and she said that I was _incredibly_ rude to you, so I was wondering if I could apologize?"

You smile at her in spite of yourself - even if it’s just to save face, it's nice when people at least try to be nice.

"Thank you," you say to her. "I appreciate the apology."

"So... what was your real name?" She's crowding in again. 

... and it begins again.

You really can't win with some cis people, can you?

"I've, uh... gotta get going," you say, indicating your cubicle over your shoulder.

"Right, right," she says. "We can talk more later!"

"Right," you say, and you go back to your desk.

* * * 

You text Arin during your lunch break, then regret it, as soon as you hit "send."

Are you coming off as too clingy?

Shit.

But then your phone buzzes, and you see that he's texted back.

_What are you having for lunch?_

_Not much. Just a bag lunch I brought for my desk_

_We're gonna eat lunch soon. We tend to all eat together_

You smile down at your phone.

_That sounds nice. Like family!_

_It can be. But one of my coworkers, Ross, he's a total sadist, and he likes to try to weird us out, or gross us out_

_I thought you were impossible to gross out, what with the whole pooping yourself on camera_

_I'm never gonna live that down, am I?_

_I don't think so, no_

_I guess there are worse things to be known for_

You guys keep idly chatting back and forth, as you eat your lunch, as you go back to work. There's a lull in the conversation, and you're typing away, when your phone buzzes again. 

_Can I show you a picture?_

... please don't let it be a dick pic. Please don't let it be a dick pic.

_What is it?_

_Surprise!_

_Okay_

Was that too brusque? 

Will he get the right idea?

What is even the wrong idea? 

If it's a dick pic, you are blocking the number, and then you are buying a bottle of something interesting to deal with the disappointment of yet another dude who sends unsolicited dick pics.

You open up the picture, when your phone buzzes, and you open the picture with some trepidation.

It is indeed a picture of Arin.

A full body picture, even, and today he's wearing a tank top with a piece of a cake on it.

He's in the most ridiculous bathroom you've ever seen. 

_... is that a Portal bathroom?_

_Yes! It was a dumb thing to do, but fuck it_

_Does your whole office look like it’s out of a video game?_

_Oh god no. I'd never get any work done_

_How do you get any bathroom stuff done, then?_

_Like you'd never want to pee into a portal_

_I wouldn't, actually!_

_... I guess I'm just weird then_

_Maybe a little bit_

You pause, then type out another message.

_I've always wanted to put a slinky through one, though_

_A slinky? I don't think I've ever thought of that_

You smile. 

_You don't think?_

_I end up doing a lot of the video recordings super late at night, because my boyfriend is super busy, so when we end up doing shit... super late. So maybe we had a whole conversation and I just like... forgot about it, because who remembers what you're talking about at three in the morning?_

_I haven't stayed up until three in the morning since I was an edgy teenager_

That's not strictly true.

In the early days of your transition, when the hormones were new and your body was doing new and exciting things, you didn't get a lot of sleep, between one thing and another. 

But things are calm these days.

You sleep like the dead, and you don't wake up to panic attacks due to the body not being right.

Hell, it isn't even "the" body anymore - it's _your_ body. 

_Are you free on Saturday?_

... huh.

That's unexpected. 

_Depends what you're asking me for. I'm free for, like, coffee or a movie. I'm not free for a long hike or anything like that_

_I feel like there's a story behind that. You wanna tell me over coffee on Friday?_

_That sounds like a nice plan_

_You okay picking me up? My car is kinda in the shop, and my wife has a date that night_

_Are you asking me out to coffee just so that you don't feel lonely while your wife goes out on a date?_

_... would I be horrible if I said that it's a little bit yes?_

Disappointment washes over you, just a bit, but at the same time, a bit of you is relieved.

You don't have it in you to begin some kind of great, sweeping love story, or whatever else this might shape into.

It's nice to know that he's not gotten so attached to you after just sharing some shawarma in a late night dinner place. 

_Nah. I appreciate the honesty. What time you want me to pick you up?_

_Seven?_

_Awfully late to be drinking coffee_

_Truthfully, I don't actually drink coffee. It's disgusting_

_So being invited to coffee...?_

_Metaphorical coffee. Hot drinks and coffee cake_

_Does coffee cake have coffee in it?_

_No, I don't think so_

_So why call it coffee cake?_

_You eat it with coffee_

_Well, I would gladly share you some coffee cake and a hot beverage of your choice_

He sends you his address, and you file it away for later, before going back to your work. 

* * * 

You're not sure what to wear, as you get ready for the... coffee date? Coffee hangout?

... for coffee.

You could go super... well, gender performative, but since you started to regularly pass, you've toned it down a bit. 

You settle for a nice button down shirt and a pair of jeans that look nicer than your usual worn out ones, and a pair of boots.

You can't go wrong with boots.

Also, even though you're, like, eighty percent sure that he won't try any... funny business, it's nice to know that you can kick him - or anyone else - hard enough that they'd regret trying anything.

And now you're in front of his house, and steeling yourself to knock on the door.

When you do, a very beautiful woman answers. 

She is holding a fluffy gray cat.

"Oh, hi! Are you and Arin going to coffee?"

She has dark hair, and she's so pretty that it stops your heart, just a little bit.

"What? Oh, um, yes, yeah." 

You're blushing. 

"You can keep him after midnight," she tells you, stepping out of the door frame to let you in.

The house is very... almost Addam's Family, with a lot more taxidermy than you would usually expect to find in a house in the middle of LA. 

"Hm?"

"He won't turn into a pumpkin, so you can keep him out past midnight," she says, and she laughs. "I'm Suzy, his wife." 

She offers you the hand not holding the cat.

"Oh, I figured," you say, and then you're kicking yourself, because of course. 

You shake her hand, telling your own name.

"He'll be down in a sec," she says. "I told him he had to wear real pants."

"... real pants?" 

"Arin doesn't believe in pants," she says, and the cat is over her shoulder, as she pets down its back.

"How do you... not believe in pants?"

You look down at your feet, and your own legs are covered in the dreaded fabric of pants. 

"Oh, it's an ideological not believing in pants, not actually not believe in, like... the existence of pants. He just hates wearing them."

"... no pants?"

"There are other kinds of pants," Arin says, and he's coming downstairs. "I just don't like regular pants."

"I'll take it as a compliment that you're willing to put them on for me," you say, and shit, was that flirting? 

... it is.

You're flirting with a cute guy in front of his wife.

When did your life get to this degree of... weird? 

"Oh, it's a huge compliment," Suzy says. "He won't put on pants for _me_ anymore."

"That's because I live with you," he says, and he kisses her loudly on the cheek, and smiles at you. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"Oh, it's barely been a wait at all," you say, and you smile back at him, a bit tentatively. 

"Shall we?"

"Lets."

* * *

"She's a taxidermist."

"Hm?"

You're buckling your seat belt, adjusting your seat a bit so that you're a bit more comfortable, and you glance over at him, your face inquisitive. 

"Suzy. She's a taxidermist. It's why we've got so many dead animals."

"Oh. I wasn't, uh... I wasn't going to ask."

"I, uh, I invited this girl over on a date, when me and Suzy were first trying the poly thing, and she said it was like being in the house in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre." 

"... there are less chicken feathers?" You offer, but you're trying not to start laughing.

"I've never really seen the Texas Chainsaw Massacre," he says. 

"It's pretty good," you say. "I think the director died recently."

"Was it a chainsaw related death?" 

"I don't think so," you say. "Although that'd be ironic."

"Has anyone ever died like that?"

"What, by chainsaw?" 

"No, like... they make a movie or write a book, and then they die that way." He holds up his phone. "I've got the google maps in, so we should be good to go!"

"Sounds good!"

* * * 

The coffee shop is tiny. 

A genuine hole in the wall - the only place to sit is the counter along the window. There is a table in the middle filled with various types of cookies, and indeed, there is coffee cake. 

"My wife's friend likes this place - she's kind of mad for coffee." 

"Yeah? It is good stuff, when it's not later in the day," you say. "But if I had it this late in the day, I'd be sitting up staring at my walls in the middle of the night."

"That does sound incredibly annoying," Arin admits. "What would you like?"

You name your beverage of choice, and indeed, a piece of coffee cake, and you sit at the window, your elbows on the counter, watching the people go by.

It's a Friday night in LA, and it isn't surprising that everyone seems to be running around. 

It's a lovely night out, the weather is at the perfect point, where it's just warm enough you don't need a coat, but cool enough that you're not sweating. 

And you just... talk.

It's weird - and super refreshing - to just talk about stuff with someone.

He makes you laugh - he makes you laugh so hard that you almost fall off of your stool, and he grabs your arm to keep you upright, which you do appreciate. 

You can see why he's so popular - he's fucking hilarious. 

"Thanks for coming out with me tonight," he says to you, after it's been three hours. 

... when did it become three hours?

You're sitting closer - close enough that your leg is against his.

"It was a pleasure," you say, "although I'm surprised you didn't go out with your boyfriend instead of some random person you met at a bar."

"He's out with his buddy," he says. "The guy who dresses as a ninja."

"You have a really weird life, you know that?" 

"I mean, you do too," he says. 

You stiffen, just a tad, but you don't think he notices.

His hand is on his own leg, but you can feel the heat of it, through your jeans.

"Why do you say that?"

"I mean," he says, "not a lot of people are, like, trans, and also you apparently have friends who tell you that you're going to hang out, and then end up taking you... hiking?"

"That was a bit of a misunderstanding," you say.

You're not gonna touch the trans thing, because... it's nice not to turn this into a whole conversation about trans people, about how there are more or less trans people, or any of that mess. 

"A misunderstanding?"

"Well," you say, "I agreed to go on a nice walk, since this was when that one park by the beach had just opened up, and I had been talking about it for ages. So I show up in, like, comfortable sandals, a pair of jeans, and it turns out that they wanted us to go actually hiking, outside of town."

"... so how'd that go?" Arin's face looks worried, but interested. 

"... I ended up going to the hospital," you say, and you're blushing. "I sprained my ankle."

"I'm sorry," says Arin. "That sounds horrible."

"It wasn't too bad," you say. "I ended up catching up on a lot of the shows that I've been missing."

You glance at the time, and oh wow, it is very late. 

You're the only ones in the coffee shop, and the owners are giving you a Look.

Your stomach growls. 

"I know a good twenty four hour diner," Arin suggests, "if you'd like to get dinner? Would it count as dinner?" 

"It could be," you say. "Although isn't what makes something "lunch" or "dinner' or whatever basically what we call it?"

"Well, yes," says Arin, as the two of you begin to walk towards your car again. "But then we get into weird places, like what makes time time in the first place, since... well, time is time."

"That's pretty trippy," you tell him.

"Dan has a history with weed," Arin tells you. "He sometimes tells me about that stuff. Or when he's, like, really tired, he ends up falling into those old cadences."

"I've known a few stoners," you agree. 

"There's something about weed that makes people weird, doesn't it?"

"I think anything that leads to people sitting there, staring at the ceiling, will make people kinda weird."

"So exhaustion?" Then Arin pauses, and he nods. "Yeah, exhaustion will make you really stupid."

"Mythbusters did an episode, where lacking a night's sleep was like being drunk," you supply.

"True," he says. "I've got the directions in my phone."

"Directions?" 

"To the diner," he supplies.

"... right," you say.

You glance over at him, in the dimness, and you see the blond streak in his hair, which catches the light.

He has a very elegant profile, you realize, and you want to kiss him.

You want it more than you've wanted almost anything in your life, and you press your fingers against your lips, the pressure of it just enough to keep you from doing anything particularly stupid. 

He smiles at you, with his warm brown eyes, and a little bit of your heart breaks. 

"So, uh, what kind of diner is this that we're going to?" 

You hold on tightly to the steering wheel, and you want to hold him, you want to kiss him, you want him to hold you....

You clear your throat.

"A twenty four hour one, like I said."

"Is it, um... is it themed?"

You blush, and you keep driving. 

* * *

You eat french fries in the diner, like you’re fourteen again, and you let your hand graze against his when the two of you are both reaching for a fry.

“Sorry,” he says, and he draws his hand back. 

“You don’t have to be,” you say. 

You lick your lips. 

He smiles at you, goofy, and the conversation turns to something else. 

* * * 

And then you’re walking to the car again, close enough that you’re shoulder to shoulder, and then he glances at you. 

“I… this is gonna… I like you.” 

You clear your throat, blushing. 

“I like you,” you try again. “If you’d be… I mean, if your partners would be okay -”

He turns around, and he looks down at you. He reaches a hand out, carefully, and he cups your cheek, giving you plenty of time to pull away.

You turn your face up into his, and you stand on tiptoes.

He kisses you, and a light opens up in your ribs, like a flower.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this partially from my perspective as a trans person - some trans people may be less paranoid than I am. 
> 
> Like this fic? Check out my tumblr, theseusinthemaze.tumblr.com! I could possibly write you something!


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